


A Quietly Frenzied Ecstasy

by Gefionne



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Ancient Rome, Light Food Play, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25670836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gefionne/pseuds/Gefionne
Summary: Crowley is attending a Roman countryside bacchanal to sow demonly debauchery, but encounters a familiar angel indulging in his own food and wine. Together, they share a quietly frenzied ecstasy under the olive trees.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 117





	A Quietly Frenzied Ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the _Flaming Like Anything Zine_ and published by mod permission.

The Word—or words—of God, in Crowley’s opinion, were sorely limited. Take _rapture_ for example: God saw it is a very particular moment when the dead would rise and the pious join them in salvation. Tedious to say the least. Crowley much preferred the earthly definition: that feeling of deep and intense pleasure humans were so keen on seeking.

If Crowley dealt in anything, it was temptations to that kind of rapture, rather than God’s stodgy interpretation. It was just such a temptation that had brought him to a hillside estate outside of Rome at the cusp of darkness on an otherwise ordinary day in the summertime of what the Almighty would consider the year 179 B.C. The estate belonged to a senator who, outside of his governing duties, enjoyed the true ecstasies of Bacchus.

_Ecstasy_. That was one word God had right: a frenzy of belief that brought humans to the brink of transcendence—free of inhibitions. The Roman gods were the kinds of false idols that the Almighty was willing to forgive humanity at this particular turn, and Crowley had to admire the sheer indulgence and animal carnality that Bacchus inspired. The ecstasy his adherents reached during one of their celebrations—the bacchanal—was unmatched. Crowley was honestly shocked that God wasn’t greedy in keeping that for Herself.

However, it made no matter to him that evening. He was at the bacchanal to inspire debauchery and wickedness. People had been killed in bacchanalian frenzy before, but he wasn’t up for that just now; he preferred to steer things away from the lethal and more toward the rapturous.

The festivities had started before sundown, as earthen jugs of wine and platters of fruit and sweetmeats had been carried into the olive grove by the household slaves. Low tables were spread beneath the boughs, all piled high with delicacies for the taking. The smell of roasting mutton wafted over the gathered revelers. Some danced to frantic drums and others reclined in comfort, either alone or with a partner or two. They might have been speaking together, but there was no mistaking the embraces some couples shared for anything other than the basest of human desires.

Bacchus, and thereby Crowley, was a devoted proponent of sex in all its forms. The more creative humans got with the act, the more Crowley wanted to inspire them to greater heights. He’d seen men and women and those where were neither one nor the other treat themselves to hours upon hours of passion, the throes of which were ecstatic to say the least. Crowley fully intended to bring the humans at this celebration that type of pleasure in the most depraved ways.

Walking barefoot and dressed in an indulgent trabea, it’s burgundy and golden embroidery reflecting firelight, Crowley made his way amongst the people in their various poses and places. Laughter and singing filled the grove, and very few people even looked up from their food, drink, or lovers to pay him any mind. He was a bit put out, actually, that they seemed to need little help in tempting themselves; they were already well on their way to licentiousness and gluttony.

He entered a clearing where a bonfire burned, throwing orange and yellow light across the faces and half-bare bodies of those around it. Crowley thought at first that it was a trick of the fire, or his hopeful imagination, but at the edge of the clearing, in the semi-shade of a wide-branched olive tree, the Principality Aziraphale was reclining on a colorful woven blanket.

Crowley knew precisely how many years it had been since he had last seen the angel, but he didn’t dwell on it—or admit it—as he walked toward Aziraphale’s place in the happy chaos. Aziraphale, a crown of olive leaves on his head, had a cup of wine at hand and was plucking fat grapes from the vine and popping them into his mouth. He spat the seeds neatly into a discarded cup.

“Angel,” Crowley said, as unaffected a greeting as he could muster when he was, in fact, immeasurably pleased to see his off-and-on acquaintance.

Aziraphale’s expression lit up as he turned to see Crowley standing just in front of him. “Oh, Crowley!” he exclaimed. Setting down the grapes, he made to get to his feet.

“Stay there,” said Crowley. “You look comfortable. No need to fuss on my behalf.”

“Well, thank you,” Aziraphale said, settling back onto his side. He patted the space on blanket both he and the spread of food and drink did not occupy. “Come, sit. Tell me, my dear, what brings you here tonight.”

Crowley didn’t have a great deal of room, but he sat, legs crossed in front of him. “What do you think, angel? Temptation, drunken perversions, general degenerate behavior—with a twist of danger mixed in. What are _you_ doing here?”

Aziraphale glanced sheepishly down. Crowley could guess he wasn’t actually _supposed_ to be at a bacchanal. “Well,” Aziraphale said, “I had heard so much about the food and wine at a festival of Bacchus and just couldn’t miss the opportunity.”

“And has it delivered so far?” asked Crowley, amused.

The angel certainly loved his earthly indulgences. That had, in Crowley’s experience, extended only to fine music, theater, drink, and ample food, but he couldn’t help but wonder in this particular setting if Aziraphale had ever participated in more _rapturous_ pursuits. Crowley himself had over the centuries, but he was a demon; it was to be expected.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale replied. “Most certainly. And the night has barely begun.” He picked up a dried date and offered it Crowley. “You must try this. It’s divine.”

Crowley didn’t mention the blasphemy, instead taking the date. He didn’t eat very much, but one piece of fruit couldn’t hurt.

“What do you think?” said Aziraphale, his eagerness plain.

“It’s all right,” Crowley replied.

If Aziraphale was displeased by the less-than-enthusiastic assessment, he didn’t show it. Instead, he turned his gaze out onto the others gathered by the fireside. “They’re quite amazing, aren’t they? Utterly unabashed in this place.”

Crowley turned to see where he was looking and found a pair of men entwined on a blanket similar to Aziraphale’s. They were naked and seemingly unaware of anyone watching them. Either that or they didn’t care at all. Given the bacchanalian circumstances, Crowley assumed it was the latter.

“Is that something you fancy yourself, angel?” he said, sly as the serpent he was.

He expected a blush and a “certainly not,” but what he got was a thoughtful look and a considering hum.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “I’ve never been quite so _exposed_ in such a way, but I wouldn’t dismiss the prospect out of hand.”

Crowley’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he reached for the cup of wine Aziraphale had been drinking from. He drained it.

“And you, my dear?” the angel continued. “Would you put yourself on display in such a manner?”

The red wine was sweet on Crowley’s tongue as he sought any kind of coherent response. He settled ungracefully on: “I could.”

“Could, my dear, or _would_?”

Aziraphale, to Crowley’s utter shock, gave him a lingering once-over, from knobby knees to his short red hair. Without more wine, Crowley couldn’t hide his face in the cup. He was forced to reply, and made an attempt to make himself sound put-together at it: “If I had the right partner, I would.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale. He turned away for a moment, picking up another date. He lifted it slowly to his mouth and bit it in half, chewing steadily. The other half he held at the level of Crowley’s lips. Crowley parted them and allowed Aziraphale to feed him the date. It was far better from the angel’s fingers than the first had been.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley started, “are you suggesting—”

“No, my dear,” said the angel. “I am _inviting_.”

Crowley had the choice of any human accouterments he wanted for his corporeal form, and he might have inquired with Aziraphale before deciding on which to give himself, but the young men across from them had inspired him: the blood of arousal went to Crowley’s cock.

Lifting his right hand, Crowley traced the roundness of Aziraphale’s shoulder, where it was bared by his cream-colored tunic. The skin sensitized, gooseflesh rising where Crowley’s fingers touched despite the warmth of night.

Aziraphale chucked Crowley under the prominent chin, turning to cupping his cheek in his soft palm. “I’ve tasted good things tonight,” Aziraphale said, “but I’d prefer you most of all.” With gentle insistence, he drew Crowley—who went more than willingly—down to kiss him.

The press of lips was, at first, soft, but then Crowley felt the curious prod of Aziraphale’s tongue. He had no compunction about opening his mouth to allow the angel to slip inside. Crowley braced himself on one arm as he dislodged the olive crown from Aziraphale’s head, pushing his fingers into the angel’s white hair. It was as soft as it had looked since Crowley had first seen him in Eden.

Time seemed to grow languid as they kissed, so much so that it was as if Crowley were lowering himself to the blanket through hot wax rather than summer air. Aziraphale’s scent of lemon soap and celestial essence won out over the smell of the bonfire. Crowley nuzzled the crook of the angel’s shoulder to better enjoy it. He landed brief pecks up to Aziraphale’s jaw, making him sigh.

“Lie down, my dear,” Aziraphale said, guiding Crowley with his plump hands. When Crowley was lying beside him, he untied the belt of Crowley’s toga and began to reach under the linen where it stopped at his knees. The fall of Aziraphale’s own clothing did little to hide that he too had chosen’s a male form for this. Crowley, unable to resist, reached out to touch his cock beneath the tunic.

“You’re so lovely, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured. “A delight finer than any other here tonight. I’ll have more of you, too.”

“How?” asked Crowley, his voice almost cracking with lust.

Aziraphale began to lift Crowley’s toga up. “Take this off, and I’ll show you.”

Naked in only moments, Crowley presented himself to Aziraphale. The angel ran his palms up and down Crowley’s lean sides, though he didn’t touch his most sensitive places—not yet. Instead, he bid Crowley turn onto his knees.

Crowley was far more exposed, but he did as he was told, hands firmly planted on the blanket as he knelt with his hips and buttocks on display. He nearly yelped when he felt a dribble of coolness down the cleft.

“What—”

“Wine,” said Aziraphale. Before Crowley could say or think anything else, the angel parted the cheeks of his buttocks and buried his face between them. Crowley cried out as Aziraphale licked the wine from him, his tongue lingering at Crowley’s entrance. A swirl of the tongue, hot wetness, and tender pressure had Crowley breathing hard and his cock, where it hung between his legs, hard and throbbing. He wanted to beg Aziraphale to touch him, but he didn’t dare—not when the angel was doing such wonderful, filthy things to him.

Aziraphale paused only to slick his own finger and press it inside of Crowley, crooking it just right to have him gasping. He worked his mouth around that single finger until Crowley groaned low, with tremendous need. Aziraphale gave him torturous kisses up and down his cleft, reaching around to grasp Crowley’s cock only when Crowley begged in no uncertain terms, “Please, angel, more.” He got it: clever, warm fingers around him and another pushed inside of him from behind.

“How lovely you feel, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured as he stroked and teased him. “So hot and tight, hard and”—his thumb broke a drop of liquid at the tip of Crowley’s cock—“wet.” He pressed his lips to Crowley’s sacrum, nuzzling there, too. “I would take you outright, but not tonight.”

Where this passionate talk had come from, Crowley would never know; he had not imagined Aziraphale to be so desirous. However, if he could do more to bring that out in him, Crowley would do his utmost in the future.

“What more then?” Crowley asked.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “first you’ll come for me, and then we’ll see.”

Crowley dropped his head between his arms, feeling his nerves come alive with each stroke up Aziraphale’s hand up and down his cock. The angel’s fingers were pure hellfire with the way they drove Crowley to madness. _Ecstasy_. He was beginning to tremble, the scene around him fading in and out until all he could feel was Aziraphale’s breath on his back and the exquisite touch of his practiced hands.

“How I’ve craved this, my dear,” the angel said. “It’s sin of the highest order, and I’ll have to atone for it, but if tonight is my only chance to lay you out before me, I won’t miss it. Turn over, Crowley, onto your back.”

When he withdrew, Crowley was bereft, but he flipped quickly and parted his legs to welcome Aziraphale between them.

“Look,” the angel said, gesturing around them. Crowley saw many eyes turned to them. “Look how they watch you, my dear. You’re a feast for me, and for them.” Giving no warning, he swooped down and took Crowley into his mouth, eliciting a desperate cry.

“Aziraphale!”

Crowley’s eyes were closed in that moment, but he opened them again to watch the angel suck him, full lips stretched wide as he swallowed Crowley deep into his throat. He could sense the attention on them, the eagerness of the humans witnessing celestial congress as they likely never would again. Maybe it was the mix of their wickedness and divinity that drew so many to watch Aziraphale pleasure him.

Crowley wanted to pay him back in kind, but he was too lost, too rapt to let him stop. Prodding between Crowley’s legs again, Aziraphale eased two fingers back into him, catching him between two sensations and driving him to the brink.

“Angel, I’m close. I—”

Aziraphale gave no indication that he wanted to pull away. He stayed with his mouth firmly around Crowley’s cock, speeding his pace and sending Crowley tumbling over the edge. Crowley came down his throat, and the angel took every bit, pulling away only when Crowley was shivering with aftershocks.

“How do you feel, my dear?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley, just recovering his voice, replied, “Ecstatic.”

Aziraphale, smiling, leaned in and kissed Crowley. Crowley tasted himself on the angel’s lips. “Just how you should be in the presence of Bacchus,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley blinked up at him in wonder. “You blaspheme again, angel.”

“What can I say,” he whispered in Crowley’s ear, “you bring out the wickedness in me. My very own tempter.”

With a shudder, Crowley said, “Then let me tempt you further. Take off your clothes, angel, and we’ll make another show of it.”

When the revelers left the bacchanal with the morning sun, they would say how they witnessed unmatched pleasure in two strangers’ lovemaking.


End file.
